Princeton University - Nassau Herald Yearbook (Princeton, NJ)

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The N assau H erald I couldn't help echoing the ideas of that crowd, and telling Gouldy that he might have considerable biceps but that when it came to singing he did it about as gracefully as Pat Kimball taking the high hurdles. At this, the young man's already riled temper got beyond controlg he rose in his wrath and caught me a peach in the jaw and-well, I woke up. ' I woke up to realize that my office as a prophet was fullilledg that I had successfully gone to sleep and dreamed what a lot of my classmates might do and be in the future. It's a perfectly safe bet that none of them will ever even approximate doing what I have wished on themg but do or be what they will, it is a fine thing to know that in it all they will be governed by the fact which will be vividly impressed on them to-morrow when they stand up to take their diplomas-the knowledge that they are Princeton men. 28

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Class Prophecy snappy expression which would indicate supreme happiness to the reader. I suggested The Endv, but he looked at me so Hercely, that I made a dive for the door, and ran half way around the block lest his wrath overtake me. I I stopped at the corner to listen to three tattered individuals who were making night horrible by yelping popular songs in near harmony. I was about to toss the poor fellows a nickel when I stopped in surprise on noticing that the three were none other than Shelt Farr, Mac Magill and Bill Bickham. They had all been prosperous brokers, they told me, but had been ruined in the panic of 1938, when the multi-millionaire pro- moter, Dudley A. Hawley, had smashed the market into the middle of the ensuing week. So they had organized a quar- tette, and were gathering quite an income from sympathetic citizens with a tendency toward being goats. I had never before heard of three people being a quartette, and I ventured to ask where their second bass was. Shelt volunteered the reply: Poor old Johnny Johnson, he informed me, He's down and out. Mac started Who Killed Cock Robin too low the other day, and Johnny's voice went down so low' on the iirst line that it fell into his stomach, and heis had dyspepsia ever since. With which sad story, the three of them trundled away to start something somewhere else, and I turned to hncl out what the crowd was looking at behind me. I was in front of a large drug-store, and there was a man in the window showing the mob what a bully biceps he had, and trying to make them believe that Dr. Swat's Exerciser was responsible for them. I nearly passed out with joy. when I recognized Gouldy Wight, the strong man de luxe of the class. I couldn't resist going in and having words with. him. But he was feeling too low to be conversational, it seems that there was such a good crowd watching the exhibition that the boss would not let him off to get lunch. I slipped him the tip that it might help some if he sang to them, so Gouldy raised his adorable voice to the tune of Sumurun and the way that street cleared was a joy forever. 27

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'.Qitlt S Q X , . E CLASS HISTORY EDWARD RIDGELY SIMPSON A fellow named Von Munch Bullinghausen once said that Hell is full of good intentions . This was rather startling information to one who had expected that this so-called history should be completed by Easter. The writer nevertheless felt that something had to be done to get himself out of this hell of a hole'l,,metaphorically speaking, of course. The history was thereupon launched upon its doubtful career under sus- picious circumstances, according to the old proverb that It is better to begin in the evening than not at all . History is little more than the register of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind. VVe, the class of 1913, have been notably free from misfortunes, except when Hap Hazard got a letter home,-f'HLap', gave me a quarter for saying this- 5 it has indulged butslightly in folly-not more than the regu- lation three times a Week, but is notorious for its crimes. Hence the institution of the social economics course. VV e now know that it is better to go crazy than be poor. If you 'don't believe me, ask DaWse Coleman. But let's get started. For out of the corner of my eye I see one grinning with apeish glee at the foul work he is even now meditating in his black bosom, to inflict upon you, O my innocent classmates! For weeks there has been no justice in the great state of Texas, but instead the broad palm of the legislature of Arkansaw has been open to bnibery. And he, the blackest of us all, at one time the slayer of men in Eagle Pass, at another the mas- 29